I've Never Been Hit On So Hard Before
by RantingFangirl
Summary: Alfred F. Jones' day was going great, at least until he sent someone three feet down the road with his car.


Hey, guys! This fic is dedicated to my friend for her birthday! You should check out her Tumblr blog Arthursbasement!

* * *

Never again, Alfred F. Jones told himself. Never again would he stay six hours after school to grade papers. Until the scratch of the pen and the shuffling of moving a newly graded test from one pile to another filled his ears. Until the lights in the hallway were long turned off, his colleagues having left the building and returned to their families, the doors to their classrooms shut and locked.

But he knew he would do it again. And again and again. Alfred prided himself on the fact that those tests sat graded in a nice, neat pile in his backpack, percentages scribbled at the top and grades logged into his online grade book for all his students to see. In the fact that he would be able to pass out those papers to his students tomorrow, the very next day after he assigned it. And as they were three months into the school year, his students had learned to expect it from him, as well as his fellow staff members. It was a reputation that he had built for himself these past few years, and he wouldn't dare ruin it.

So there he was, driving home, the sky an inky black. A bag of McDonald's sat in his passenger seat, his backpack haphazardly thrown in the back. Alfred glanced at the hot, steaming coffee that in his cup holder, and, giving into its temptation, he reached to take a sip. He immediately put it back into the cup holder, cringing at the bitter taste, shaking his head and wishing that he had taken the time to put in his usual amount of sugar and cream before heading out of the parking lot.

Though, as Alfred felt a familiar rush down his spine, his eyes widening and his grip tightening on the steering wheel, he supposed that he could deal with it. At least it got the job done, no matter how bad it tasted.

As soon as the bitter taste was out of his mouth- which, unfortunately, took a long while, he reached into the paper fast food bag, rustling around through a mountain of napkins and shoving a straw- there also might've been a strawberry milkshake with extra whip cream in his other cup holder- to the other side of the bag. He pulled out a few french fries, spending a short second to debate if he should dip it in his milkshake, but, deciding against it, popped them into his mouth. Alfred scanned his surroundings as he chewed.

He turned the radio on, wincing for a moment at the loud sound. The radio host announced an accident on the highway he was driving towards- a semi-truck full of pigs tipping over, a pathetic excuse of wasted bacon, in his opinion- left him sighing and shaking his head. In a split-second decision, Alfred took the ramp into the backroads, a longer but much less crowded way.

He had failed to consider the lack of lights and traffic signs, or anything else that would help ease his journey home, and he cursed himself for that. Returning his hand to the wheel, silently mourning the fact that he could no longer casually eat his fries for the next thirty or so minutes, he tightened his fingers around the rim, scooting up in his chair. Slowing his car down, Alfred turned, quietly cursing and almost biting his tongue as he hit a pothole. Another negative or those types of roads.

Alfred narrowed his eyes, biting his bottom lip as he continued driving. This part of the road was wavy, with short curves and subtle ups and downs, and he thanked any powerful deity out there that it wasn't raining- or even worse, icy- that evening. He couldn't afford to flip his car over and miss even a couple days from work. The fee for the repairs alone would put a major dent in his bank account.

A sharp turn had his bag falling into the floorboards, the paper crinkling and deflating. Alfred cursed, banging his hand against the wheel, rolling his eyes and huffing. With a quick glance to the side, he could easily see his fries spread across the bottom, one of his wrapped cheeseburgers sticking out. He shook his head. A damn shame, really.

Figuring he would clean it all up later, most likely when he came across a stop sign or stop light, Alfred kept on driving, his mood a little more deflated than earlier. Pouting, he reached for the radio, turning the knob right. The squeaky lyrics got louder and louder, and, upon identifying the song that was playing- a top hit, one that was quite popular with his students, though the title escaped him- Alfred immediately changed the station, a cringe on his face.

The new station played a decent song, one that was ancient even when he was in middle school. He hummed along, singing a verse here and there if he knew the words.

As the road smoothed, the twists and turns long behind him, he sent multiple glances towards his fallen comrades. His french fries were unsalvageable, a tragedy that he would not soon forget, a salty pile most likely forming at the very bottom of his floorboards. But the burgers…

Taking one hand off the wheel, Alfred grabbed his milkshake and coffee cups, moving them to their temporary residence at the cup holders installed in the door. Any other casualties would be unacceptable.

Something in the back of his mind told him what he was about to do was a horrible idea. The thought replayed over and over again, like it usually did when he was making these types of decisions, but like he always did, he ignored it. The real bad idea, Alfred thought with a hint of bitterness, was putting his fast food bag in the passenger seat without a seatbelt.

He pulled at his own seatbelt, loosing it significantly, to the point where he could comfortably raise his butt off the seat. Alfred pressed his left foot down for leverage, and, checking one last time, he made a quick scan of his surroundings for anything out of the ordinary or a brief bend in the road. When he found none, he quickly dipped to the side.

Alfred winced as the seat divider dug into his stomach, his blue dress shirt stretching as he reached for the bag. Keeping his left hand on the steering wheel, Alfred used his right one to grab the bag. He pushed the wrapped hamburgers back into the bag, picking up a handful of fries and tossing them in. Alfred reached for the pile again, his fingers stretching wide in preparation to take as much as he could hold-

He snapped up as something slammed into his windshield, the sound of the glass breaking into a spider's web worth of cracks almost deafening. Alfred's eyes widened at the pained face on the other side.

Alfred pushed himself back into the driver's seat, slamming his foot on the breaks. His car screeched, but Alfred paid no attention to it. He didn't bother to turn the car off, nor the radio, for that matter, his attention focused on the body lying in the middle of the road. Alfred opened the driver's door, kicking it back as he stood, only to be pulled back down by his seatbelt. He struggled against it, the polyester fabric digging into his neck as he shoved his thumb against the button. Finally, Alfred was free, diving out of the car and leaving the door open.

The first thing he saw was blood. It coated the face of the body- no, the man. The person was living when he hit him. Someone with thoughts and feelings and a family. Alfred came to the morbid realization that he may have killed someone, and his family and friends would never see him again, only knowing that he had been murdered by someone who was trying to shove chemical-pumped french fries into a paper bag.

He stumbled back few feet, away from the body- the man, and towards the side of the road. Alfred vomited into the grass, bracing his hands against his knees, fingers squeezing the fabric of his dress pants. The bitter taste of coffee was back in his mouth, this time stronger than ever.

Alfred's throat burned as he gasped for breath, hacking and spitting. He coughed, bringing his hand up from his knee to cover his mouth. Upon feeling something wet on his fingers, Alfred gagged, trying desperately to fight the urge to vomit again, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose.

He tried pinching himself, smacking the side of his head for good measure. Anything to make him wake up from the nightmare he was experiencing. Alfred tried to convince himself- desperate to wake up- that he had fallen asleep at his desk, a more common occurrence than not but couldn't shake off the knowledge that this was all real.

He had run over someone, a very real someone, and their body was right behind him.

Alfred froze at the thought, squatting down and bracing his elbows against his knees. The fabric of his dress pants stretched around his thigh, leaving an overall tight feeling. He ignored it.

After about a minute or so, he rose, exhaling a shaky breath through his nose, his shoulders tensing up. His shoes, polished to a shine for the faculty meeting that day, scratched and scuffed against the asphalt. He winced at the noise, shaking his head.

At least his body wasn't scraped against the road, which was not something he could say for the man who took the tumble.

Alfred stopped in front of him, staring at the stranger with no small amount of disgust. Whether the subject of the feeling was Alfred himself, or the actions that had led to this, or the thin layer of blood coating the road, he couldn't tell.

The stranger's face was perhaps the thing that was the hardest to look at. A large cut stretched across his cheek and down the side, parallel with the hair line. Beads of blood slowly slid down, staining his jaw and neck. Parts of his shirt were ripped and stained, the stranger's left sleeve no more than a slip of torn fabric hanging from his elbow. Two cuts on his forearm, seeping with blood, made Alfred cringe. Even worse was the fact that his right arm was not bending in any natural way.

Squatting, he timidly reached out for the stranger's hand, his own shaking with more vigor than it had on his first day of teaching. Alfred picked it up at the wrist, letting the hand itself and the fingers hand limply. Putting two of his fingers together, he pressed hard against the spot he had memorized during that torturous week of training in the summer.

His face crumpled when he felt nothing.

Alfred let himself fall to the asphalt, not giving a damn about his shirt or his pants or his shoes. He rested his hands against his knees, desperately wishing that he wasn't there. That he hadn't done what he did.

That he hadn't killed someone like he had just done.

He sat there for a few minutes, staring at anything but the stranger on the road. Alfred ignored the pressure building up behind his eyes, closing them and shaking his head. He didn't deserve to feel sorry for himself, not with the injuries and amount of pain he must've given.

That is, if the stranger was still alive.

Unwillingly, his eyes drifted to the body in front of him, to the fingers stretched out towards him. To the ripped clothing and to the ankle that seemed a few degrees too far to the right. To the bloody face that showed shock more than anything, as if he hadn't expected everything to end so quickly and in such a brutal way. As if he couldn't believe that it had been him that this happened to.

He couldn't handle it anymore. Alfred pushed his hands against the road, shakily rising to his feet. Not sparing a single look towards the stranger's body, he slid back into his car, letting the back of his head slump against the headrest. "Fuck," he whispered, before yelling it, again and again, hitting against the steering wheel. Alfred covered his mouth with his hand, ignoring all the germs and bacteria it probably had on it.

He sat there like that for a minute or two, heavily breathing, trying to find any sense of rationality in him. Anything that could tell him that everything would be alright. That he just fell asleep at his desk while grading papers or while he was at the faculty meeting.

A tear fell down his cheek, and he quickly wiped it away. But when another came, and then another and another, he let himself go, letting his emotions out, slamming his forehead against the steering wheel and sobbing-

His phone pinged.

Alfred paused, looking over to it. The phone was still on the USB charger cable he had put it on before leaving work, watching the blue LED light flash every few seconds. Reaching over, he lightly clicked on the home button, his eyes scanning the notification. A text from his brother, along with a missed call.

 _You doing ok, man? Called your cell and you didn't answer._

Alfred cursed, swiping the notification away, not bothering to answer. He ran his fingers through his hair, drawing a shaky breath. He sniffed, roughly wiping the tears from his cheeks. Squeezing his fingers around the steering wheel, Alfred lifted his head up, looking through the windshield and beyond.

The body was still there.

Of course it was. He shook his head. It would be stupid to think- to hope- that the stranger would just rise to his feet, crack a couple of joints and go on his way, leaving Alfred to gather his wits and try to make up what had happened as he drove home. Something inside him wished that that were the case, wished that he could just walk away and forget that this ever happened.

Alfred returned his attention to his phone. Just out of habit, he clicked it back open again to check the batter, already knowing that it was at full charge. Not quite paying his full attention to what he was doing, he pressed the phone app, dialing in the three numbers ingrained in him since elementary school and pressing send.

He squeezed the handing remaining on the steering wheel as he heard the ring, using his other hand to set it to speaker. Alfred let a shaky breath out, slightly perking up to check on the stranger's body when he heard the click of the phone being answered.

"9-1-1, what's your emergency?"

Alfred shook his head, straightening his back as he answered. "Yeah, so, I just hit someone and I don't think that they're breathing."

* * *

He was alive and his name was Arthur Kirkland.

The fact that he was given a name and a photo had made what'd he done seem that much more real than it had been. Before, Mr. Kirkland was just a stranger, the bloody body crumpled on the street. But now there was a life behind him, a life that he had almost ended with a succession of careless, stupid actions that could've been easily avoided.

Which was why he was here, instead of at home laying around on his couch.

Alfred stood in the hospital waiting room, flowers in hand, on a Saturday morning that he'd rather have over sooner than later. He made sure to dress up today, to make sure it didn't seem like he didn't care about what he had done, but not to the point where it looked as if he were dressing for a funeral.

He looked around, feeling the stares of those around him sitting on his back. Alfred knew that, in reality, no one was paying any attention to him, nor at his dress shirt and tie, or at the large vase of daffodils in his hand, and certainly not at the guilty look on his face. Rolling his shoulders back, he tried to shake off the feeling, only to make it worse.

Alfred pulled his phone from his back pocket, checking the time. He had been there for fifteen minutes, fidgeting and wondering why exactly he was there. He had no place in Mr. Kirkland's hospital room, no right to walk in there and pretend to be happy. To pretend that Mr. Kirkland was alright and nothing had happened. Not when everything could've been avoided if he had been paying attention.

Sending a quick look towards the daffodils, Alfred let out a quick and hard sigh, earning short looks from those sitting around him. Alfred ignored them, leaned back onto his heels before redistributing his weight. He checked his phone again, knowing that not even a minute had passed.

It was time.

Alfred quickly walked to the receptionist's desk, trying his best to seem calm and collected. He rested his free hand on the counter, waiting with a smile for the receptionist to finish with what she was doing. When she grinned at him, taking it for a quick signal that she was ready, Alfred tried to hold down his stutters as he spoke.

"Um, hi, I'm looking for someone's room number. Would you be able to help me with that?"

The receptionist nodded, clicking around with her mouse before asking Alfred for the name.

After receiving Mr. Kirkland's room number, Alfred began the trek up the two floors, not bothering with the elevator. While he walked, Alfred straightened up the flowers, making sure that the card was visible and that not a single one of the daffodils was slouching.

By the time Alfred reached the closed door, he had haphazardly re-tucked his shirt, neatened his hair, and triple checked the double knot on his shoe laces. Alfred glanced at the door, pulling out the small slip of paper the receptionist had given him, seeing if he had the right room.

Something in Alfred fell when he realized that yes, he did have the right one, down to the very last number and building letter. Alfred stared at the metal handle, flexing his fingers.

Perhaps Mr. Kirkland was sleeping. Or had friends and family visiting and didn't want to have to deal with the man who had put him in the middle of all this mess. Alfred turned his attention to the flowers, along with its matching clay pot. Maybe he was allergic, and would think that Alfred was just coming to finish the job by taking them to him, It was possible, definitely possible, and he shuddered at the thought.

Alfred debated whether or not he should make a tactical retreat and just leave their meeting to when they settle over injury claims and insurance. It would certainly be easier, he thought, at least until the actual day came approached the calendar, and it would force him to avoid going through the awkward moment that was sure to happen if he went through that door. But…

He knocked on the door, three times exactly, trying his best to do so gently in case Mr. Kirkland actually was sleeping. Alfred let his hand fall to his side, patiently waiting for a response. It didn't take long, only a few seconds for him to hear a sharp, "Come in."

Taking a deep breath, he let it out quickly, shaking his head. Alfred wasted no time in grabbing the handle and turning it down, not wanting to keep Mr. Kirkland waiting. It was the least he could do.

When Alfred opened the door, he expected flowers and cards taking up any and all surfaces that could be used, balloons reading "Get Well Soon" in big, bubbly letters filling the ceiling space, and multiple friends and family members occupying the provided chairs in the hospital room to keep Mr. Kirkland company. Something similar to all the stereotypical hospital TV shows he binged on a regular basis.

In reality, the room was bare, the only decorations being the standard hospital wall paper and the fake potted plants near the window. A small stack of books was the only thing that could even slightly be considered personal, besides Mr. Kirkland himself.

The man laid on the bed, trying his best to maneuver the book he was reading with a broken arm while stuck between a mountain of pillows. His white cast was completely void of any signatures whatsoever, which probably would've disturbed him most if not for the white bandage on his forehead.

He didn't notice him as he came through the door, at least, not until Alfred tried and failed to subtly clear his throat. Mr. Kirkland quickly reached for a bookmark, shoving it in the crease of his book before snapping it shut. Alfred stood there, fidgeting slightly as Mr. Kirkland looked him up and down, before finally settling his attention on the flowers in Alfred's hand.

Mr. Kirkland was still staring at the flowers as he spoke, his words the only thing that showed that he acknowledged his presence. "Who the hell are you?"

Alfred turned his head to the side, trying to hide the burn on his cheeks. He knew this would happen, he prepared for it. But all of that preparation and practice with his brother flew out of the window as soon as Mr. Kirkland had started speaking, and Alfred wanted nothing more than to set the flowers down and sprint from the hospital.

Of course, he couldn't really do that, if only because of the fact that he was desperately holding on to the only small shred of his pride that he had left. If he were to run away from this…

Alfred would probably never be able to forgive himself.

Strolling over to the end table, Alfred shoved down the urge to shudder as he felt Mr. Kirkland's eyes on his back, following him as he walked. He carefully set the flowers down in the middle, making sure that the note was straight and rereading the works to check if they were legible. Alfred nodded when he knew for sure that they were.

Having not yet answered the question, Alfred froze as Mr. Kirkland cleared his throat, the frown on his face growing more intense by the second. He asked his question again, this time with much more force in his words, and Alfred almost feared that Mr. Kirkland would get out of the hospital bed to strangle it out of him.

Not that he could, with only one arm working like it should.

Clasping his hands behind his back, Alfred went fully into what he called faculty-meeting-mode. He gave Mr. Kirkland a small, professional smile, almost exactly like the one he gave the Biology teacher when they exchanged the computer carts that previous morning.

He had prepared for what he was going to say, going over it over and over again while making the short drive to the hospital. It wasn't until it was actually time to say those words, however, that Alfred began to stumble, his blush burning hotter. Mr. Kirkland watched him with a raised eyebrow, beginning to softly drum his fingers against the stand connected to his bed.

"Uh, I, uh." Alfred scratched the back of his neck before running his fingers through his hair. He grinned sheepishly, hoping desperately that Mr. Kirkland would quickly take the hint on what he was trying to get out and say it so he wouldn't have to. As it was, his luck had seemingly run out these past few weeks, and Mr. Kirkland's mercy seemed nonexistent.

"Hurry up. I have all morning but you probably don't. You?" He let his voice trail off, as if he enjoyed watching Alfred suffer the way that he was. Mr. Kirkland smirked, propping his head up with the arm that wasn't broken. "Don't be shy."

Alfred let himself slump, shaking his head. "I'm, uh, the guy who hit you." He didn't bother to raise his head to meet Mr. Kirkland's eyes, seeing that the latter had stiffened.

Mr. Kirkland went silent, and when, after a few seconds, Alfred finally raised his head, he noticed that the smirk was gone, replaced with what could be called a half-assed wince at best. It wasn't until then that the full front of guilt hit Alfred, what he felt before feeling like nothing now. He couldn't help it, letting the words spill out.

"And I take complete responsibility for what happened. I wasn't paying any lick of attention to my surroundings and to the road and I didn't see you and that's completely my fault-" Mr. Kirkland stared off into space as Alfred rambled, but it wasn't until he said that it was his fault that he was cut off.

"You think that all of it's your fault?" Mr. Kirkland's tone was incredibly monotone, and he snorted, waving him off.

There was a sense of finality in his words, which was the only thing that stopped Alfred from insisting. The hospital room feel into an awkward silence. After about a half of a minute or so passed, Mr. Kirkland shook his head, tsking, before reaching his book and continuing his reading.

Alfred, having nothing to do, looked around the room, once again taking note of the lack of trinkets and get-well notes. Something about it disturbed him, that Mr. Kirkland had been left alone in the room to his own devices, with no evidence that anyone at all was thinking of him. Even more so to realized that Alfred, the man who had caused all of this, was the first.

"So-"

"Yes?" Mr. Kirkland didn't take his eyes off the book, acting almost exactly as he had just a few minutes prior.

"Where is all of it?" Alfred made a sweeping gesture across the room, trying to give a clue to what he was saying.

Mr. Kirkland looked up from his book, only slightly, his eyes following Alfred's hand. He looked largely unimpressed, as if he had heard it multiple times before. "What do you mean?"

The awkwardness in the room had reached its full height, with Alfred trying his best to come off as sensitive to Mr. Kirkland's feelings. He was tempted to say to hell with it and to say exactly what he meant, but Alfred had already done too much physical- and most likely emotional, as well- damage to have much of a say in anything. Not to mention the fact that, with what he had seen so far, there was the very high possibility that Mr. Kirkland might take it the wrong way.

Alfred shrugged at Mr. Kirkland's question, though he knew that it wouldn't make much of a difference when it came to the answer. "Where's everything that your friends left you?"

Mr. Kirkland sighed, slumping against the giant pillow behind him. He shoved his pointer finger in the crease of his book to keep it open, closing the two sides. The smile on Mr. Kirkland's face seemed, at first, kind and professional, but something inside of Alfred told him that it was anything but. It was tense, as if Mr. Kirkland was considering the pros and cons to what would happen if he were to try to kill Alfred. "Mr…?"

"Jones. But just call me Alfred. Mr. Jones is what my students call me and it makes me feel all old and stuff."

Mr. Kirkland nodded in what Alfred first thought of as understanding. "Mr. Jones, I'm sorry that not everyone has the same amount of friends as you do, and not everyone has the time and money to buy what's just going to be eventually thrown away."

There it was. The burn had returned to Alfred's cheeks and he waved his hands, trying to clear up what was most likely just a small misunderstanding. "No, no! I didn't mean it like that!" Mr. Kirkland raised an eyebrow. "I didn't! And besides, you just assumed that I have a bunch of friends, when I could be the loneliest man in the world."

Mr. Kirkland laughed bitterly. "I'm sure some people in this world have you beat for that title, Mr. Jones."

The way that Mr. Kirkland had said it made it seem like he was talking about someone else, but Alfred couldn't help but feel that he was referring to himself. It was sad, in a way, and he had a sudden urge to fix it.

Alfred stepped up to the hospital bed, shoving his hands into his side pockets. He straightened his shoulders, giving Mr. Kirkland the smile that won over parents at the parent-teacher conferences more times than not. "Well, I could be your friend, if you want."

The smirk was back. "And who says I want you to be my friend, Mr. Jones?" There was a suggestive tone in his words that sent snakes slithering up Alfred's back. He could feel his blush grow darker, and he tried his best to hide it, quickly lifting his hand to cover the bottom half of his face.

He played it off, though, moving his hand to slide his fingers through his hair. Quickly, Alfred thought of what he was going to say next. Mr. Kirkland could be flirting with him, which was odd, considering the circumstances. There was also that small possibility that Alfred overestimated the tones given, and it could be more of a literal statement than anything. Or perhaps he was being tested, Mr. Kirkland wanting to see if Alfred would stoop low enough be willing to hook up with someone he had hit less than a week prior for an eventual quickie.

He decided to play it safe.

"Aww, that sucks, Mr. Kirkland. I have so much to offer!" He smiled, trying to act cheeky, running his tongue over his teeth.

Alfred figured that he had Mr. Kirkland beat, and any other witting comments would undoubtedly fall flat in attempt to crush down what he said. He mentally patted himself on the back, crossing his arms together.

"And what do you have to offer, Mr. Jones, besides hitting me with your shitty car and sending me skidding three feet down the road?"

Alfred sucked in a sharp breath, wincing. It was a good one, really, it was, but that didn't mean it had to hurt any less. Mr. Kirkland still hadn't broken his smirk, and Alfred couldn't tell if he was actually being serious or trying to make light of his current situation.

"Look, man-"

Mr. Kirkland frowned, waving him off. "Don't get serious with me now, especially right when you were starting to treat me like something other than an egg shell. " He ran his finger down the spine of his book, eventually moving to the cover, rubbing over the protruding lettering. "Let me have my fun."

He seemed a bit angered, with the harsh rubbing and tightened jaw. It wasn't until the room fell completely silent that Alfred realized that there was no TV or radio, just Mr. Kirkland and his small stack of books. He scratched the back of his neck, shaking his head.

"But that's not all I have to offer!" He grinned when Mr. Kirkland looked up. "I can also bring you all the flowers and food that you're allergic to, get the wrong prescription, and spill soda and coffee all over you before you leave to go to an important meeting."

Mr. Kirkland smiled. "Anything to finish the job, I suppose?"

Alfred could've sworn that he could feel his heart go into overdrive. He winked, letting his grin grow wider. "You bet."

They stayed like that for about an hour or so, making suggestive jokes that just barely teetered on the boundaries that not one of them dared cross. It wasn't until a few minutes before noon that Alfred broke the conversation to pull his phone out from his back pocket, cursing at the time.

Mr. Kirkland, who had insisted that he call him Arthur- thought Alfred refused to do so until he stopped calling him Mr. Jones- straightened his back, leaning forward to try to get a quick peak at Alfred's phone. "Do you need to leave?"

Alfred huffed at the bluntness of the question before sighing, nodding while giving Mr. Kirkland an apologetic smile. "Unfortunately. Told my brother that I would go to lunch with him at 12:30." It was a fall-back that they put in place for when their meeting inevitably went wrong, something Alfred could use to get out quickly if he should need to. Though, now, he considered the consequences if he were to cancel on his brother last-minute, if only to stay here a bit longer.

Mr. Kirkland's good mood, which had become visible around ten minutes into their banter, seemed to dampen a small bit, a small frown on his face as he nodded along with Alfred. He almost seemed disappointed that he had to go.

Setting his phone on the end table to his right, Alfred stood from his chair, picking it up and putting it back into the corner where he had found it. When he grabbed his phone to shove it back in his pocket, Mr. Kirkland spoke, his back straightening and his left hand reaching out.

"Wait, give me your phone."

Alfred paused, looking Mr. Kirkland up and down, his face in more of a grimace than anything. "Why do you need it?"

Mr. Kirkland tsked, shaking his head. Alfred later would've been adamant that there was a tint of red on his cheeks. "No matter, just hand it over." He flexed his fingers, reaching his hand out further to take it.

Sighing, Alfred handed Mr. Kirkland his phone, almost squeaking when it was snatched from him. He watched as Mr. Kirkland swiped through it, using his cast- which he allowed Alfred to sign, a swell of pride going through him when he saw that swooping signature written in black Sharpie- as a prop. After a few seconds, he seemed to have found what he was looking for, as he tapped on it rather viciously, or, as much as he could with only one usable hand.

Alfred had to stifle a laugh as he watched Mr. Kirkland struggle typing, having to put one letter in at a time. "You need some help with that?"

Mr. Kirkland paused to flip him off. "I'm fine, thank you very much."

After a minute or so, Mr. Kirkland nodded, humming his approval. He handed Alfred the phone, and when he scrolled through it to see what damage had been done, he found Mr. Kirkland's contact information, complete with his home phone number and multiple emails.

Alfred looked up, his eyebrows knitting together. "Dude-"

Mr. Kirkland cut him off, drumming his fingers against the arm rest of the hospital bed as he spoke. "Now, my cell phone was brutally murdered in the accident, but I plan on keeping the number for my new one, so it would be best if you wouldn't call that particular number for awhile. At least until I tell you otherwise."

Alfred shook his head, pursing his lips into a thin line. "Why would you give me your number? Like you said, I sent you three feet down the asphalt, I gave you new bones in your right arm? Why would you want anything to do with me?"

Mr. Kirkland shrugged as best as he could, taking in a sharp breath that Alfred hoped to not be one of pain. "Don't question me, Mr. Jones." Alfred opened up his mouth to object, but Mr. Kirkland cut him off once again before he could speak. "Now, you have your brother to get lunch with, do you not? Don't keep him waiting. You can go now."

Alfred let his shoulders slump at the fact that he was being dismissed. He clicked his phone off, shoving it in his back pocket. It wasn't until he had his hand on the door handle that Mr. Kirkland spoke again, the creaking sound of his book being reopened barely making a difference as he called out. "OH, and Mr. Jones?"

Alfred paused, only turning his head slightly in acknowledgment. "Yes, Mr. Kirkland?"

"I've never been hit on so hard before in my life, so I must thank you for that." Alfred could practically feel the wink and smile on his back.

Alfred snickered, shaking his head as he opened the door. "My pleasure, man."

And around a week later, after Alfred was finally forced out of his nerves- to the great relief of his brother- he called Mr. Kirkland- no, Arthur- and asked him out on a date.

He could only laugh when Arthur told him that he would not be the one driving.


End file.
